Enthral Me
by snipershezz
Summary: Yondu despises many things, the word nice is one of them. It leads to places in his brain he'd rather let die. Of course, Kraglin breezes by him and all of that goes to shit.


**Characters: **Yondu Udonta, Kraglin Obfonteri,

**Relationships: **Yondu Udonta/Kraglin Obfonteri

**Tags: **kinktober, kinktober 2018, scent kink, could be seen as pre-slash, pining, erotic daydreams, Yondu!whump, self-deprecating thoughts, not happy, this came from a dark place in Yondu's psyche, kinda just a weird fic for me to write in general actually, not sure where this came from but here it is,

**Warnings: **None.

**Summary: **Yondu despises many things, the word nice is one of them. It leads to places in his brain he'd rather let die. Of course, Kraglin breezes by him and all of that goes to shit.

**A/N: **The concept of Hrax and Hraxian!Kraglin comes from the incredible Write_Like_An_American, who's stories I utterly adore 3 (and you should totally go read, like, all of them because they are amazing) So, as usual mad shout out and big love to them for creating it because none of my stories would exist without their ideas :)

**October 25****th**** \- Prompt Twenty-Five: **Olfactophilia (Scent)

**Part Twenty-Five of **_**Kinktober 2018**_**.**

#kinktober

* * *

Not many people would know it, but a Centaurian's sense of smell is off the charts. Something to do with the whole hunter/gatherer genes or whatever – Yondu doesn't care to research it all that deeply.

Unfortunately, it tends to make itself known without him even realising – and suddenly he's floating on a high of smoke, leather, gun oil, and aftershave as his first mate passes by his chair.

_Damn it all, he bothered ta take a shower. _The Centaurian thinks darkly.

The words fall off his tongue before he quite thinks the whole thing through, "Ya smell decent, Krags."

The Hraxian blushes purple to the tips of his ears before composing a lopsided, somewhat awkward grin, "Careful Cap'n, ya almost sounded – _nice_."

Yondu sneers, sinking deeper into his chair.

He hates that word – _nice_.

There were many words Yondu hated. Most of them ironically consisted of four letters.

Nice and Kind.

Both words tended to give the implication the being they were being said about was _good_.

Another four-letter word the Centaurian despises – for three reasons;

The first; he is a Ravager, and Ravagers just aren't good people.

The second; he is a Captain and he is proudly known for his ruthless cunning and blood thirsty temper.

The third; he is Yondu _fucking _Udonta – hardly a flowers and chocolate, holding hands and taking windy walks kinda guy.

Besides, if one thinks about it too long – as Yondu is prone to doing as they shoot through the universe – Nice often leads to Good and being good is like a decaying seal on an airlock. One moment everything is fine and the next you're wondering what happened to gravity while your eyeballs freeze over and your lungs implode.

It's a dangerous word – nice.

A slippery slope to other horrible, shitty, little four-letter words.

Hope; Wish; Fuck.

Ok – so _fuck_ isn't _that_ bad, if Yondu thinks of it in the strict guidelines he adheres himself to, because if he ponders the word 'fuck' for too long, it often leads to a certain person.

A person who has a smile like silver dollars, eyes like a peaceful cloudy stream, and smells so damn good Yondu wants to bottle it so he can spray it on his pillow, fall asleep smiling and wake up not having had a single horrific flashback.

Hope. Wish.

It's a slippery slope.

A slope that leads to a waterfall, sending him plunging off the edge into imaginings that punch the air straight out of his lungs. Imaginings he has no business indulging in.

_Translucent, thickly inked arms encircle him, the hairs of that ever greying mohawk tickle his shoulder. The feel of slightly cooler skin against his heated chest. He's not sure where his snarls begin and his partner's end, that dopey drawl, turned deep and breathless with his name. That enthralling smell, entwined deep in his memory, wrapping around his soul like a warm, comforting fur when the _Eclector's_ heat's gone out._

Fuck.

It's all well and good as a cuss word, but if he thinks about it too long, Yondu comes to the horrifying conclusion that he's never wanted to _fuck_ Kraglin. Not in all the years he's known the man.

Because 'fuck' is a four-letter word with alarming implications.

A petrifying entanglement that can lead to other appalling four-letter words.

Like – _Love._

No, no he didn't want to _fuck_ Kraglin. He wanted to - wanted to make -

No. It's another four letter word that terrifies him to the very pits of his soul.

Now, in Yondu's limited experience with _that_ particular four-letter word, he's painfully aware it doesn't have to mutual for one to fall in love.

Besides, it's laughable to even entertain the idea it might be mutual.

He is _him_, after all.

A middle-aged, washed up pirate, with a black heart.

Mutual.

_Ha!_

But it hardly matters, because Yondu is _not_ in _love_ with Kraglin.

He _isn't_.

The funny thing about four-letter words is _liar_ is also one.

It bounces around his brain, even now, as he stares out into the black, the intoxicating scent of his first mate still trapped in his nostrils.

_Liar. Liar. Ass on Fire._

Not that he'll ever admit it.

Not now.

Not ever.


End file.
